


Whose Eyes Are Fixed upon Renown

by Sineala



Category: Ancient History RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 01:32:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13307592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: In a world where men may be gifted with powers from the gods, Hannibal finds that some men are luckier than others.





	Whose Eyes Are Fixed upon Renown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sevenofspade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenofspade/gifts).



> I don't even know. This happened.

Hannibal is nine when it happens.

Hannibal begs his father to take him to war. Instead his father takes him to the temple, to the fire in the sacrificial chamber. Hannibal stands next to the fire, feeling the heat on his skin, when his father kneels down next to him.

"Hold your hand over the fire," his father says. "Swear you will never be a friend to Rome. Swear it."

Hannibal thrusts his thin arm forward, holding it dangerously close to the flames. "I swear," he begins--

The fire crackles and shoots up, and his arm is engulfed in flame--

It doesn't burn. It doesn't hurt, and it doesn't burn.

He can feel the sensation of the fire, the pressure of it, the uncomfortable warmth -- but he is perfectly fine. Unharmed. His skin is unmarred.

His father stares at him, wide-eyed. He knows what this means. Everyone knows what this means. Hannibal has been chosen by the gods, given a great gift, a power beyond those of ordinary men. It comes upon most people -- if it does at all -- a few years later. A just-bearded youth might throw fire, might wield ice, might read a man's mind. But Hannibal is only nine, and the fire does not touch him already. It means that this gift of his is strong.

He steps back from the fire. His clothes are singed. His father is smiling at him.

"You will do great things in Carthage's name," he pronounces, and Hannibal nods firmly.

* * *

That night Hannibal sneaks an eating-knife from dinner and he tries to poke himself in the hand, just to see.

The knife does not cut him. The gods have given him flesh akin to bronze, to iron.

Oh, he will soldier well with this.

* * *

By the time he is old enough to command armies, word of his gift has spread. And certainly after Trebia, everyone knows it. He takes, or rather does not take, two arrows to the shoulder. One lodges in his armor, point against his unblemished skin. The other one hits low in his unprotected throat and... bounces.

His men fight all the harder, seeing it.

* * *

Crossing the Apennines, he learns that his gift applies only to his skin. He loses an eye.

* * *

He fights. He wins. Trasimene. Cannae. But he can't hold Italy. He can't take Italy.

They recall him to Carthage.

He may be gifted, but he is only one man. He cannot stand against Rome. But he will lead his army nonetheless.

And then Scipio lands in Africa. He comes for Carthage.

* * *

They meet for the first time before Zama. He has heard so much about Scipio over the years, as much as Scipio has likely heard about him. He knows Scipio was at Cannae and had taken charge of the survivors. He waged war in Hispania, capturing city upon city from Carthage. He routed the Numidians in Utica.

And now he is here, and Hannibal is in his tent.

He is younger than Hannibal thought he would be.

"Wine?" Scipio asks, and Hannibal shakes his head. Scipio beckons to have his own cup filled, then dismisses the slave. "I have heard about you, you know," he says, when the tent is empty. "I have been looking forward to meeting you."

Hannibal pauses. He doesn't know the right thing to say. "You have heard of my victories, then?"

Scipio makes a small noise to himself and paces the tent. "We Romans have a story, about the early days of Rome. Rome was fighting the city of Clusium, in Etruria--" he does not need to say that the place is Roman now, does not need to say that Rome consumes all she touches-- "and a man named Gaius Mucius hid a sword in his cloak and set out to the enemy camp, that he might kill the king."

Hannibal wonders what this has to do with him. He wonders what Scipio is trying to tell him. "Did he?"

A faint smile crosses Scipio's face. "When he got there, the soldiers were being paid, and the king was sitting next to the secretary. They were dressed alike, and of course the men were mainly talking to the secretary, and he was not about to ask which was which. So he killed the secretary instead of the king."

This story really has no point, does it?

"The king wanted him thrown in the fire," Scipio says, and he is watching Hannibal's face very carefully. "But before they could do that, Mucius told them that the Romans were their enemy forevermore, and he held his right hand in the flame, as if it did not hurt him."

Oh. This is the point.

"So you see," Scipio concludes, "I _have_ heard of you."

Hannibal swallows hard. "This man-- did the fire burn him?"

"Of course it did," Scipio says, with barely a flicker of emotion. "He was not you. His right arm was ruined. After that he was called Scaevola. Left-handed."

"You know, then."

"About Hannibal, son of Hamilcar, whose flesh can turn arrows?" Scipio snorts. "You have hardly kept it a secret." 

Scipio smiles, then, a broader smile. He sets his wine-cup down, steps forward, and places his hand on Hannibal's face. Hannibal thinks about the other rumors he has heard about this man, the ones that say he is like the Greeks in his preferences, maybe even in that one.

"I can feel that, you know," Hannibal says, mildly. He is invulnerable, not insensate.

Scipio strokes his face for one breath, two, and he lets his hand drop.

"I'm sure," he says, with a smile. Hannibal watches him breathe. "I have never told anyone this," he says, and he looks away. "I am like you. The gods have favored me."

Hannibal holds very still and he thinks about the powers he knows. He wonders if Scipio read his mind when he touched him, if he knows their troops and their strategy, all his secrets.

He wonders if Scipio has the power to charm a man. If he wants him in his bed.

"How?" Hannibal asks.

Scipio's mouth quirks. "Fortune herself has favored me. I am... lucky."

Hannibal squints at him with his one good eye. "Any man may be lucky."

"True," Scipio says, "but there is lucky, and then there is me. If I want something to go my way, it will. If I'm looking for someone or something I have lost, they will turn up. If I play at knucklebones twenty times, I will throw Venus every time." He pauses significantly. "And we are going to battle, and I find I want to win."

It is just like the Romans, Hannibal thinks, disgusted, to keep these things a secret, to hide their gifts until it benefits them to tell of them -- and then he realizes what Scipio is actually saying.

He will lose at Zama. He will lose the battle. He will lose the war. And there is nothing he can do about it.

He straightens up and steps back.

"I suppose we shall see," Hannibal says, "which of us is more favored."

* * *

At Zama, the sun is blotted out in the sky, and Hannibal knows already that it is not him who will win.

He breathes in, breathes out, and orders the trumpeters to sound the charge.

**Author's Note:**

> Mucius Scaevola is real! Well, as real as any story of early Rome is.
> 
> Also, here is a [Tumblr post](http://sineala.tumblr.com/post/169512809229/fic-whose-eyes-are-fixed-upon-renown) for this story.


End file.
